Stone garden amid a green pasture; gray, forboding clouds above.
It's right there, in front of me, wooden train bound for heaven.
Unfamiliar but knowing eyes staring back at us.
She is released through our tears,
In the balloons drifting skyward.
Nothing is immortal but the scent of a flower.
Roses and carnations, roses and carnations.
The trees sway and whisper, carrying emotions on the wind.
There is peace amidst our sorrows,
Just as life springs from death.
And the grass is always green in the quiet garden of stones.
And through the clouds the sun still shines.
(March 2003)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem